


Borrowing Time

by DarkShadeless



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Ahead, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tragedy, it's still set toward the end of the clone wars, so canon typical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 05:11:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16633583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.What if someone reached out to touch the past and for once found more than nothing?





	Borrowing Time

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually written this some time ago. Today feels like a good day to post it.

 

Mace Windu is a man on borrowed time. That’s all he can say with certainty.

His greatest talent was always his Sight. Shatterpoints bloomed in the Force for him as vivid as fireworks on a moonless night and just as beautiful. In his Initiate days, before he mastered himself, that affinity had been nothing short of crippling.

Now? He counts himself lucky if he can tell what turn his fellow Council member’s moods might take and he has known them for years. That’s… _It’s bloody infuriating, that’s what it is,_ if Mace may say so in the privacy of his own thoughts. So, as far away from the Grandmaster as he can manage. Him and that damnable gimmer stick of his.

Mace puts down the scroll in his hands with a sigh so he can massage his temples. A stress headache. Again. _Force damn it._

He’s almost grateful for the interruption when Jocasta puts down a cup of tea next to his work station some time later. Truth be told, he’s not getting anywhere.

“Another long night, Master Windu?”

“Needs must, Madam Nu. Needs must.”

The war is in full swing, they are all of them run ragged. Mace can hardly pull a Yoda and excuse himself from Council sessions indefinitely to go on a _vision quest_. Someone has to hold down the fort.

Even so he has done his best to find answers. There has to be a reason the Force is as muddied as it is. While his clouded sense of precognition smarts something fierce, Mace’s motivations don’t lie in pride alone. A brutally honest discussion with Adi made sure of that. He can still see his dear friend's forehead furrowing in trepidation, ' _You can't See? I know we are struggling to chart the eddies of war but... nothing?'_

Mace hadn't had the heart to tell her years had gone by since his last true prophecy. He hadn't realized it himself until he started to connect the dots.

“Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

With every record Mace puts aside it seems less likely he will find the answers he seeks, not more. He has probably become the foremost expert on Force distortion of all kinds but so far that accomplishment proves to be unhelpful.

His bleary glare does little to make the scroll in front of him give up secrets it doesn’t hold. People are so much easier to intimidate.

_… maybe I should take a break._

But there is so much to do, so many lives resting on his shoulders –

Jocasta is still standing behind him, her presence not quite the font of patience and calm he is used to. Mace glances at her with a frown.

“Jocasta?”

The lines on her face are deeper, in the sparing light, her hesitation more obvious for the data pad she turns in her hands. “You asked me to look at the holocrons on your behalf, do you remember?”

It’s her disquiet that makes Mace abandon his reading completely to give her his attention. He can’t remember the last time he has seen her filled with such disquiet. “Have you found something?”

“I’m not sure.”

 

\---

 

Thankfully they don’t have to make the whole trek to the vaults. The master of their archives has, it turns out, been attempting to corral the recalcitrant holocron for quite some time. Long enough to keep it close at hand.

“Whatever he knows, he won’t tell me.”

“But he _does_ know something?”

The discomfort on Jocasta’s face becomes more pronounced the more she ponders the artefact, it seems. “I think so. He was – “ The librarian shakes her head. “No, I will not distort your first impression. Fresh eyes are best.”

Always the scholar. Mace has to suppress a smile despite his worries. He has known her all his life and she is still the same as she was when she scolded a wet-behind-the-ears initiate about proper treatment of holo-records, years and years ago. How time flies.

“Here.” With the care of a curator handling a priceless exhibit Madam Nu retrieves a transparisteel box from underneath her desk. Inside, on a bed of memory foam, rests a jedi holocron. The cube is dormant, glowing a soothing blue.

It’s old.

Most of their holocrons are, of course, but it doesn’t take more than a once over for Mace to see _how_ old it is. The metal worked into the structure is tarnished despite the prudence Jocasta handles all of their artefacts with.

As she does now, opening the case and coaxing the cube to life with a gentle touch of the Force. The corners turn easily, the glow intensifies and soon enough the light coalesces into the shape of a Jedi master.

He musters them carefully and Mace can tell what caused Jocasta’s unease. That’s not the face of someone who has nothing to hide. “Good evening, Master Timmns.”

“Master Windu, I presume.” The Mirialan glances in the archiver’s direction. “Madam Nu has told me of your search. Have you been successful yet?”

“I think we both know I haven’t, don’t we?”

Timmns’ projection crosses its arms, an unhappy slant to his mouth. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“Are you?” Generally, Mace tries to show the respect to the old masters that they’re due. On a case by case basis that doesn’t mean much. “Look, you recalcitrant piece of memory, I have a war to fight, the Sith at my throat and the Order coming down around my ears. Whatever you know, spit it out.”

Going by Madam Nu’s sharp intake of breath he’s going to be in for it later but the long and short of it is that Mace doesn’t have any fucks to give left and if he did he’d need them for Kenobi’s next report.

Damn that man and his dramatics.

Master Timmns face goes blank. As the silence stretches, slowly his resistance begins to crumble. “Very well, may the Force forgive me.”

 

\---

 

“Somewhere over here I think. Ah yes, right there.”

Wandering the archives in the middle of the night with a holocron for a lamp and guide both is not how Mace expected to finish his excursion today. Especially not when that holocron directs them toward the historical exhibits. They are abandoned right now, with no classes in session to visit them. Maybe they would be even if there were. There are so few of their youngest now, safely where they belong.

Mace shakes the thought of resolutely. That’s not what he’s here for.

The case in front of them is filled with knickknacks from the last Sith war, ancient relics of a time long past. All that can be safely shown to younglings. A few burnt out lightsabers that don’t hold force impressions, mock ups of some of their less grisly artefacts, the originals hidden away in the deepest levels of the Temple.

The centrepiece of the display is a pyramid the size of Mace’s fist.

He had always thought it was a fake, too. It _had_ to be. No one in their right mind would leave a Sith holocron lying around where anyone could pick it up.

Only apparently they had done just that.

Jocasta returns his incredulous stare with a mulish one of her own. “Don’t look at me like that Mace, it’s _broken_. It never worked. There's nothing left of what it once was, that’s why my predecessors put it up in the first place.”

At first glance she’s right. The matrix crystal doesn’t hold a spark of light, lifeless. Dead.

Master Timmns is looking at the thing with an unreadable expression. “Of course it doesn’t work. If it did you would destroy it, or lock it away in a vault where it’s dark and lonely and, worst of all, _boring_. Isn’t that so, my old friend?”

There’s no answer but a shudder creeps up Mace’s spine regardless. The old master sounds almost _wistful_.

“Touch it for me, would you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, like a youngling out chasing a ghost story they don’t believe in, Jocasta unlocks the case and does just that.

Nothing happens.

“See? Broken.”

Another dead end. Mace can’t say if he is more disappointed by this wild goose chase or _relieved_ because they do not teach their Initiates about their Order’s history with a _live Sith holocron_ for a prop.

Timmns sighs, deep and heartfelt. “Sar, I… I’ve come to ask a favour.” His voice breaks on the last word, as does the calm façade he has kept up so masterfully Mace had taken it at face value. There’s conflict underneath, something uncomfortably like guilt. A wealth of emotion any master worth his salt should know to let go.  “ _Please_.”

A shiver of red steals over the pyramid. Jocasta snatches her hand back, horror stark on her face. Mace can’t blame her.

The depths of the matrix crystal ignite like an ember coaxed to life by a stray breeze. It washes the exhibit in bloody light as the holocron spins, opens, as smoothly as if it hadn’t sat in a display case for decades, perhaps _centuries_.

Creche masters show their _clans_ this damned piece of junk.

First thing in the morning Mace is going to –

The Sith gains form with a swish of his robes. “You realize they’ll melt me down at the earliest opportunity, don’t you, Timmns?” There’s a mocking edge to his words, sharp enough to cut. “Three thousand years dead and you’re still running up the score.”

His barb hits the mark. Timmns’ projection hunches with a wince. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re _sorry_? Your bloody Order _killed my people_!”

Mace stumbles back a step as the ire of what should be a recording at best explodes from the pyramid in a wave. Force energy passes over the exhibition, setting the genuine artefacts to ringing in a disturbing echo.

 _Fucking hells._ This is what they have lying around in the middle of their damned library. How could this happen? Who _allowed_ this to happen?

“I know.”

“Well, as long as you _know_.”

Master Timmns finally finds his composure, or enough of it to draw himself up. “Nothing I say could ever be enough. I won’t insult you by trying to… there is no excuse.”

There’s honest regret in his tone and Mace can feel his last bit of patience give out. “For a dead Order you’re a pain in the ass. You’ll be happy to hear your lot has got the whole galaxy dancing to its tune. Was there a _point_ to this, Timmns?”

Though the Sith’s mask is blank Mace can feel the press of his attention shifting to him. Unnerving. No holocron should be this… _alive_.

The man scoffs. “Tell me Jedi, how many Sith are you fighting? Two? Force forbid, five?”

‘ _Three,_ ’ Mace doesn’t say. It’s a bitter enough pill to swallow on a good day. Three of them, disregarding Grievous who isn’t even _Force sensitive_ and they have brought the entire Jedi Order to a halt, the entire _Republic_.

Despite the lack of answer the Sith laughs, low and bitter. For some reason his mockery makes Timmns’ head bow again.

“Yon, please.”

“What do you expect of me, Somminick? There’s nothing I can do for you and that might be the greatest irony of all.”

“Would you?”

“If I could?”

The air crackles with potential. Mace can taste it, feel it, but he can’t catch it any more than he could yesterday, or the day before. It’s maddening.

A decision is made. Paths fall away, unseen and unheard.

“Yes.” Sar’s voice is almost soft. “I’ve never been that kind of monster. You know that.”

Master Timmns swallows and squares his shoulders. “Then help them _see_. I know you can do that, at least.”

Slowly, the Sith glances from his… acquaintance? to the Jedi and back. “It might be for the best if they don’t.”

“Sar-“

“Timmns, I can barely hear you over the screams.”

This claim seems to shake the Mirialan to the core. “It’s that close?”

“She’s standing where she’ll fall.”

It takes a moment for the meaning to make an impact. Jocasta’s eyes grow wide, disbelief and a shiver of fear leaking into he Force as she tries to let them flow through her and fails.

Her upset finally jars Mace out of his stupor. “Nice try. We’re done here.”

Sith lie, the whole lot. This can’t be truth. _It can’t be. The Temple- it can’t be._

“That eager to close your eyes and ears, Jedi?”

“To poison? Any day.”

“You’re a fool.” _Potential_. The paths are so close to the surface Mace swears he can almost see them. _Almost_. Much as he strains himself they slide through his fingers like shadows and mist.

“We’re in the eye, Jedi. I thought you wanted to know the storm that will take you. Isn’t that what you were bothering Timmns about?”

_He shouldn’t listen. He shouldn’t. Sith lie, whether they’re long dead or not._

… but does he have another choice?

 

_There’s always a choice._

In another world, Somminick never gives up his secret. Jocasta never tells Mace of her suspicions. The holocron refuses to open. It has died a true death, long ago. It was never recorded, never reached the Temple, was locked away in the vaults.

Incensed, grieving, Sar denies his friend his help.

The Jedi destroy him in their shock.

Mace turns and walks away.

A thousand thousand futures unfold into the crystalline beauty of a shatterpoint, potential given intangible form. In this moment anything could happen and no one could say which path they will walk until this mirror-made gem breaks under their touch. One shard will come to pass, only one.

A hundred ways to and from this very second. A million decisions, a million worlds in which Mace will never know. Not until it is too late.

 

_But this is none of these worlds._

 

The pyramid is warm to the touch, pulsing with Dark Side energy. The miasma is so thick Mace swears he can taste blood.

_All you have to do is open your eyes, Jedi._

It’s burning under his fingertips, he has to grit his teeth against the pain, so he won’t pull back and Force he should –

**_WAKE UP_ _!_**

The world _fractures_.

 

_He’s standing in an inferno. Fire, death, fear. The Force is an endless scream. It’s hell._

_Only… it’s not, is it?_

_The flames, half frozen in time lick at holo-book shelves and work stations blackened by blaster fire. Glass crunches under Mace’s boots._

_He glances down, at the toppled exhibition case. The pyramid is lying on its side amidst the wreckage. No two steps further Jocasta lies curled in on herself. Her eyes are open, unblinking. Dead._

_Movement draws Mace’s eye. Someone has rounded the shelves further up but the smoke conceals them_. 

“ _Good soldiers follow orders. **Execute Order 66** _._ "_

_The last thing he sees is the barrel of a blaster._

Mace comes back to himself, bent over on his knees and retching, with Jocasta’s concerned voice in his ears.

“Master Windu? Mace!”

_Force. Oh, Force, no._

Sith lie. They _lie_. They know more ways to twist the Force than the Jedi Order has forgotten in thousands of years. Sar could have shown him _anything_. It's not real.

Too bad that Mace has never been in the habit of lying to himself. He knows a vision when he’s dumped in it headfirst, he has had enough of them in his life.

Now that the veil has torn he can _See_ it, hanging in oily strips at the edge of his presence. It’s already knitting itself back together. Where it hasn’t managed yet firelight shines through the cracks. It throws the archives into sinister shadows, painting the walls with the dancing figures of Jedi fighting for their life in their very home. Falling, dying. Begging the Force for help without answer.

 

_I can barely hear you over the screams._

Sar hadn’t been exaggerating.

 

\---

 

_I need to alert the council. We have to –_

_Do you really think you can stop it, Jedi? No one can. It’s too late._

_Then what was the point of showing me this!_

_I’m giving you a chance, one I wish my people had when you came for them. Will you take it?_

\---

 

The next morning, crèche master Jandri-Kal will have a peculiar visitor. The Master of the Order himself will come to her. He will give her orders she will need to hear twice, a data pad with a set of coordinates and a case, tightly packed with memory foam.

_Send them away. Delete every trace. Tell no one where they went. What they don’t know, they can’t give up._

_When you take your secrets to your grave do it in the certainty that in killing you, your enemies are denying themselves their own victory.  
_

Two holocrons and a data-book filled with as much of the archives essential information as they can afford to parcel out, that’s all Jandri-Kal will be allowed to take, apart from her clan, a padawan to assist her and enough supplies to get them started.

That’s all any of them will be allowed to take.

 

When the 501st marches on the Temple, they kill everyone inside. Healer, Archivist, Knight, it doesn’t matter to them. Good soldiers follow orders.

They find no children. The younglings are long gone.

 

 


End file.
